


Drown Me in Glitter

by BloodthirstyKitten



Series: "In Tokyo" being the Soundtrack of your Life [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Dates, DFAB reader, Exchangeable Genitalia, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Mettaton EX, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader-Insert, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Self-Insert, slight Robot Kink, workplace shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodthirstyKitten/pseuds/BloodthirstyKitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which your scientific job of science has you doing much more art than science, you’re praised for making cup ramen by a fish, there’s a robot on your desk who nearly sparkles, and you accidentally go on a date.</p><p>With the robot.</p><p>Congrats on the sex, by the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drown Me in Glitter

**Author's Note:**

> There isn't enough Mettaton x Reader fics out there... So I guess I have to feed the hungry masses. Meaning me. My thirst knows no bounds. Thirst with me.

Regardless of what anybody said, you didn’t apply for the job at the Doctor Alphys’s lab because she often had visits from her loud, boisterous, fantastic celebrity robot friend, or from her loud, boisterous, fantastic gym teacher girlfriend. (Apparently she can bench press seven children?!) You did it because you’re qualified, you like experimental/mathematical/engineering science, and you heard that she has a soft spot for artists. In fact, you found that the minute she found out that you can draw, your workload has been less science aid and more art related.

You’re not complaining. Commission work is still work, and she pays you your normal hourly salary regardless of what she’s having you do. And you do help out with what you were actually hired to do when she remembers that she didn’t take you on her team just to have you draw.

And although you didn’t come for the, ahem, “robutt” and “fish wife,” you don’t complain at their presence either. Undyne mostly thumps you on the shoulder, tells you you’re doing a great job!! (even if you’re not doing anything at the moment, she’s once told you that you were doing a great job at making cup ramen) and goes on to bother her girlfriend. She’s cool. Keeps you motivated too, in an odd way.

The robot, on the other hand, barely talked to you. Of course you knew who he was. You don’t think anybody above or below ground doesn’t know Mettaton at this point. If you didn’t have cable and missed his ten or twenty shows, than you’ve probably seen his movies. Or his books. Or his magazines. Or his fashion line. Or his toy company. Guy seriously gets around.

Like Undyne, however, he’s also loud as all get out. Even if he barely talks to you, you know why he’s here. Sometimes it’s to get repairs (“Alphysssssss I’m _dying,_ just look at this!! No, it’s not just a scratch, it’s a horrible disfigurement upon my person, you have to fix it!”), sometimes just to hang out (“No Alphys, I’m not going to watch anime with you, aren’t you supposed to be working now?”), sometimes to gossip (“Tell me every sordid detail of your romance with Undyne, darling, I’ve been out of the loop so long I have no idea how your crush is turning out”). You spend most of this time at your desk, squinting at your computer trying to figure out _where the hole in your lineart is._ It takes significant concentration to find the offending three pixels.

Thus, you’re reasonably startled when a voice rumbles out from behind you, low and male and _right at ear level._ “Can I see?”

You don’t blame yourself for almost falling out of your chair, spinning around to see the bona-fide genuine robotic article standing barely a foot behind you and looking intently at your screen. You’ve never seen him this close before. He’s got a shiny silver face, neck, collarbones. In fact everything has a shine, from his hair to his boots, the silver and pink and black. A shame. Aesthetically, he could use a few matte parts here and there. His hands look to be gloved, so you don’t count that.

He is a beautiful robot, you must admit from your awkward position on chair and desk and floor. The hair looks soft and synthetic, the arms smooth and articulated. You doubt there’s even a ridge anywhere to show that he’s made of artificial parts. Even the plating on his face is just decoration, perhaps a design dating back to when he was just prototyped and those harsh edges were still a part of him.

Maybe. It’s a possibility.

You want to touch it.

“Can I see what you’re working on?” He asks again, nodding at your computer. Oh, right. He did have a reason for scaring the living shit out of you.

“Um.” You press the Home button. Paint Tool Sai zooms out and shows him your canvas – a rendition of your boss’s girlfriend suplexing a boulder, surrounded by trash. It’s an anniversary present from Alphys to Undyne, when you finish it.

“Cute,” Mettaton says. “Undyne will love it, I’m sure. You’re quite the artist.”

“I’d better be,” you gripe, forgetting for a moment that you’re talking to a very expensive, very famous, and very temperamental robot. “I didn’t spend several thousand dollars going to art school for a few years to be a _mediocre_ artist.”

He laughs at you, propping himself on the desk. His legs aren’t metal, you realize, because they give under the edge of the desk. Huh. “I don’t think we’ve met, darling. I’m – well, of course you know who I am.” He laughs again; something sounding like it came right out of a stereotypical 90’s anime. _Alphys I’m not going to watch anime with you,_ your bedazzled ass. (Not that your ass is bedazzled; you don’t go to work in your PJs. Even though you could. Alphys doesn’t have a dress code.)

“And you are?” He prompts, holding his hand out.

You take it hesitantly, telling him your name. He says it back and it sounds odd coming out of his speakers. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him say anybody’s name other than Alphys’s and Undyne’s. It’s all “darling” or “gorgeous” or “sweetheart.”

“It’s nice to meet you, darling.” Much better. Then Mettaton sits on your desk, crossing his not-metal legs. “I hope I’m not bothering you too badly. Alphys is supposed to meet me in half an hour or so. I came early, and there’s nothing for me to do.”

... “Right,” you say, scooting your chair back to your digital canvas. Honestly, you have no idea what to do with a celebrity robot on your desk. You refuse to check him out. You absolutely refuse to let yourself do that. You haven’t stooped that low yet.

Plus, he’d probably notice.

“Don’t mind me, gorgeous. Do your thing.”

You do your thing. To your surprise, Mettaton – the loud, fabulous, glamorous, showbiz celebrity robot – doesn’t bother you very much as you work. He watches mostly, pointing at your screen (never touching, thank god, though you doubt he’d get anything like _fingerprints_ on it) and asking what you were doing there. In fact, he actually seems… interested?

He does leave after half an hour or so, when you hear the door open and doctor Alphys come in. “Toodle loo, darling,” he says as he leaves. You just sort of… wave, awkwardly, from your seat. You realize belatedly that you hadn’t even stood up for him.

\- x -

As you expect, Mettaton doesn’t bother you very much after that either. It almost disappoints you. Sometimes, when he arrives too early to meet Alphys at once, he comes to sit at your desk and watch you work. Sometimes he starts a conversation about the most inane things – his show, his ratings, the weather, whatever it was Alphys had you work on. You humor him and watch him in return, marveling at how his body works. It’s just on the right side of the uncanny valley, face and movements exaggerated attractively. He does look like he was designed by somebody who watches a lot of animation. It’s fascinating.

He seems genuinely surprised when he comes in to find you working on science sometimes.

When he does come in, you’re often at a loss of what to do or say. What can you do or say to such a character? It’s not like you have much in common, beyond adoration for ghosties. (His cousin is adorable, just thought you’d mention, you’ve seen them going on tour with Mettaton on TV.) You would smooch a ghost, 10/10.

With such little to offer in terms of conversation (there’s only so much you can say about art, or Alphys, or the odd little mess that is your social life without boring him, you think), you tend to do stupid stuff. Like when he finds you making cup ramen in the kitchen.

“Want some?” You offer halfway through the conversation, holding out the cup with nothing else to really say or do. He’s kind of got you awkwardly hanging around the microwave.

Was that a snort? Did Mettaton, the doctor’s robot, fabulous star… Just snort? You must be imagining things.

“Ah, no thank you, darling.” He’s smiling, patting your head. Belatedly, you realize your error. Shit. “I’m afraid I don’t have the _stomach_ for it.”

“… Was that a pun?”

“Maybe.” He coughs, a hand to his mouth. “I might have picked up a thing or two from a… a skeleton I end up spending time with every now and then. Mutual acquaintance gets us together now and then.”

You feel very odd laughing at the celebrity robot. You do anyway, trying to excuse yourself from the microwave before you make more of an ass of yourself. He tries to follow you back to your desk, claiming that he has nothing better to do since Alphys isn’t in. Tries is the operative word, considering it’s around then that Undyne kicks the door open (she literally kicks it open, which is an improvement. The first few times she kicked it _down_. She’s learning) and ambushes the two of you.

“Doing a great job, kid!” She tells you, ruffling your hair. She has no idea what you’re doing. “Mettaton! Have you seen Alphys?”

You escape the situation with a small wave, ducking back to your desk and getting back to your canvas. Mew Mew fanart for twenty dollars an hour, you’re clocking in as much time as you can.

About ten minutes later an odd number calls you. You don’t recognize it, so you don’t pick up. You might have the most lax boss in the entire over and underground, but you’re not going to take advantage of her leniency to take calls from strange numbers at work. Besides, you hate picking up the phone for people you don’t know anyway.

It doesn’t leave a voice mail, whoever it is on the other side. That’s fine. You get lots of calls from random numbers and you don’t really care.

The number calls again and you still don’t care.

You care a little more when, from a great distance you assume, you hear a distinctly cybernetic bellow of “WHY DON’T YOU ANSWER YOUR PHONE?!”

You blink. You blink again. The phone rings. You put your pen down and answer the odd number, having a vague inclination that you suddenly know who’s calling.

“Ah, there you are, darling.”

“I’m working,” you say lamely. Mettaton laughs.

“Yes, of course, I know. I simply wanted to say hello. I’m a little stuck right now finding Alphys and all for Undyne, even though she could just wait like I was. I didn’t feel right just leaving it off at that, what with her sudden bombastic appearance.”

Ah. “Yes, that makes sense.” Wait. “I mean, um, that’s okay. It’s fine. I didn’t feel right just staying, anyways.”

“And why is that?”

In the background you hear: “Mettaton! Put the goddamn phone down!”

“I am talking, excuse you!”

“Excuse me nothing, stop distracting yourself and get with the program!”

“Ugh. Darling, I’m going to have to call you back. I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s… fine? It’s fine.” You cough and refrain from nervously slurping ramen out of habit. You’re on the phone. “Really.”

“Okay darling, cheers! I’ll be back as soon as I’m done here.”

He hangs up first, leaving you to listen to dial tone at your desk. Belatedly, you wonder how he got your number.

\- x -

He starts calling you at the oddest times. You learn to go with it. He talks without using his speakers at all when he’s on the phone; his personal one is built into himself. It’s fascinating to watch him animatedly throw his arms around without making a sound, when he calls up Alphys from your office.

You set his ringtone to a Studio Killers song, then keep your phone on vibrate so nobody can hear _In Tokyo_ play whenever he calls.

\- x -

Maybe once a month, or twice if you feel like you’ve earned it, you go out to a diner in the evening. It’s nice, for you, to not have to cook and pay somebody roughly $30 (an hour and a half of salary under Alphys, the best job you’ve ever had to date) for a full meal. Plus a milkshake. During these times, considering how little you ever go outside nowadays, you like to dress up. Put on some nice clothes, maybe take some effort to make your face actually look presentable, do something with your hair other than just maybe comb it.

tl;dr, you look nice.

It’s a monster-run diner you go to tonight. You alternate, monster to human, trying to figure out what you like more. Honestly you don’t have much of a preference either way, you’ve come to find, but fuck if you’re breaking tradition now. You’re going to have some variety in your life or die trying.

Maybe literally. Sometimes you eat things that’re still wriggling.

You like what you’ve got here though. Much better than the temmie... thing you tried a few months ago. You’re about halfway through a burger the size of your face and a milkshake to match when the door slams open (what is it with people and slamming doors in your life; this is a nice fucking establishment and there’s no need for that level of violence) and the entire restaurant goes quiet. You turn in your seat, obviously, because you’re not that “cool person in a movie who doesn’t look back at explosions.”

Who the fuck is the asshole who probably kicked open the do–

Okay, you weren’t expecting that.

“Darling!” Mettaton says, rushing past everybody to sit hurriedly in the seat opposite yours. “I’m so sorry I’m late darling, terrible traffic and all.”

You stare at him.

“I hope I’m not too late.”

What.

“What?”

Wow, Mettaton’s a lot better at ignoring the people around him than you are. Then again, it’s mostly monsters, and monsters are a lot better at the whole “not taking pictures of celebrities doing random shit” than humans are. You bet he’s used to a lot more cameras than are currently going off around the two of you.

He leans in close, pulling your head down to his chest so he can whisper into your ear “Papyrus called and told me he saw you stood up on a date so I came out as fast as I could.”

Um.

Um...

Um????

You sit down and stare at his smiling face as he leans across the table, smiling at you. You wonder if this is what a processing error feels like. It probably does.

What the fuck.

After a little while of you blankly staring at your – your date, now, apparently? Mettaton coughs and jerks you out of your running internal loop of “what the fuck.” Um. “Why did Papyrus car- um. He wasn’t... Um.” _He wasn’t right_ , you want to say. _He mistook the situation, maybe._

You have no idea how to save _Mettaton’s_ face now; that’s kind of a thing to be mistaken for. You don’t want to offend him! It was... It was really sweet to come, actually, thinking that you were being scorned somehow and coming to set things right.

“Hmmm?” He prompts. Uh.

“Tell you later,” you decide, drinking furiously from your fucking milkshake. He smiles. “So, how is Papyrus? I didn’t know you knew him.”

“I probably know him the same way you do. He’s Undyne’s friend.” He looks like he wants to steal some of your food with how far over the table he’s leaning. It’s a little unsettling, having him stare at your face so intently. You can almost see the pixels in his eyes, he’s so focused. “He’s doing fine. Spends a lot of time at the queen’s school, protecting it, doing things with Undyne. I think he’s attending, actually. I wonder if her bench press number includes him...”

“Nah, then she’d say seven children and one skeleton probably.”

The dinner passes like this, with inane conversation between the two of you. It’s almost like you’re back in your desk chair, and the fucking hamburger is your computer, except you keep getting sauce stuck at the corner of your mouth and Mettaton keeps _touching you._ He paused after the first time, an idle thumb brushing away the drip at the corner of your mouth, and asked if this was okay in hushed tones.

It was. He continued, cleaning off his hand and running a hand through your hair. His touch was surprisingly gentle, brushing against your cheek and your nape. You find yourself leaning into the touch, actually.

He notices, of course he does. He notices and cradles your face as you awkwardly try and suck up the rest of you milkshake, silently smiling.

“You’re cute,” he says out of nowhere, brushing his thumb against your cheekbone. You choke on your drink. While attempting to cough air back into your lungs and not do something disgusting like snort it up your nose, you wonder if you could possibly get alcohol here. Probably not.

“You’re pretty,” you counter, because you’re determined to never call yourself “not cute” anymore. This was probably the more awkward thing to say. Mettaton certainly didn’t seem to anticipate it. He actually pauses, eye widening and watching you almost in disbelief.

He doesn’t stay in disbelief for long, settling back into his celebrity smile. “Touché, beautiful.”

“Hot stuff.”

“Sexy.”

You poke him in the forehead, glad you didn’t flick him when the pad of your finger hits cool metal. “Dork.”

“I am not!” He says, a hand poised dramatically at his collarbone. Ratings plus twenty, you’re assuming. “You nerd.”

“Dweeb.”

“Silly.”

“Oh now that’s just too far.” You poke him at the corner of the mouth. “I’m hardly what you can call silly.”

He opens his mouth and captures your finger in it, sucking softly. His lips are startlingly soft and his mouth is wet and this is extremely suggestive, um, should you remove your hand from his face and pretend you aren’t bright fucking red? Too late now, probably, because he hums (and how unnatural is it that you don’t feel it in your hand at all) and yeah that’s a laugh, pretending that this isn’t a thing for you. You feel that impulse returning, the one to touch him all over.

“Are you all right, darling?” Mettaton teases without even having to your hand fall from his mouth and yeah that’s also a thing, look at you, the artist scientist being found out about your not-quite-workplace-safe fascination with robots.

“Y-yeah, peachy.” You’re running out of food to distract yourself with. Maybe you should have dessert. Fuck it, you’re having dessert. You order apple cobbler from your furry waiter, pulling your hand away from Mettaton’s face and cleaning them on your pants.

“I’m glad to hear it, love.” Love. That’s a new one. You don’t think he’s ever called anybody that before. Cobbler comes to your rescue, giving you something else to do. Except Mettaton has your spoon. And he’s sticking it into your food and holding the mouthful out to you expectantly. “Aaaaah.”

“I can feed myself!”

“Yes, but this is much more fun. Aaaaah, darling.”

You do eventually _aaaaah._

He’s being almost disgustingly romantic with you, spooning you mouthfuls of cobbler, waiting for you to finish before offering you more. You almost feel like returning the favor, but “he doesn’t have the stomach for it.” And he’s still _touching you._

Mettaton’s other hand, the one not holding your silverware, keeps putting your hair back behind your ear. He’s tilting your head, and thumbing your neck. He tells you that you’re gorgeous, sincerely, and you’re torn between how fucking cheesy this impromptu date is and how sweet it is that he’s trying so goddamn hard to make you feel wooed and adored.

Uuuuugh you should probably end it and tell him that you weren’t stood up in the first place sooner rather than later. Even if this is really, really nice. You haven’t been on a date since... college? Well, that’s actually not that surprising for you; you haven’t exactly been out of college for very long. Still, though. 

Mettaton pays for you. Of course Mettaton pays for you. He doesn’t even let you try to pay. You kinda feel bad? But then you remember he’s literally a rich as fuck celebrity and can totally afford $35, plus tip. A big tip. A really big tip. Fucking treat these monsters.

“Well that was nice, darling,” he says once you get outside. He’s holding your hand.

“Yeah.” It was. “Thank you, Mettaton.”

“My pleasure.” Then he kisses your hand. Damn, ratings plus two hundred right there. “I simply couldn’t let you sit there alone like that.”

Right. You should probably... come clean about that. Bluuuh. “There was a mistake, actually,” you start to confess. “I wasn’t stood up, Mettaton. I just like eating out sometimes.”

“Hmmm.” There is a moment, a fraction of a second when his eyes widen and he stares down at you. You see it, you hope it means nothing. Then he shrugs with his entire body, a theatrical affair. “Well darling, you got me anyways. I hope you enjoyed it.”

He’s still holding your hand, now aloft in the air. You squeeze it softly, working to twine your fingers with his. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I hope you enjoyed keeping me company?”

Mettaton laughs, _oh-ho-ho-ho-ho!_ with the back of one hand pressed against his mouth. “Darling, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have come rushing to your rescue.”

You’re glad. You’re glad and – well, it’s a date, isn’t it? It’s a date and you’re going to enjoy yourself as much as you’re allowed to. So you tug at his hand (which does nothing; you’re much weaker than a robot) and stand on tiptoe, pressing your lips to his.

 _Whirrrrr_ , goes a fan under the hand you have braced on his chest. You don’t linger there, leaving him with a peck and pulling away. That’s your plan, anyway, but when you pull back he catches your back and dips you, fucking dips you and kisses you properly with a pliant mouth.

This is a rare opportunity, kissing a robot while he dips you on the side of the sidewalk at eight PM after an impromptu romantic date. Of course you kiss back, open your mouth for him when he asks for it with a swipe of the tongue. He’s a good kisser, the sort whose grasp you’d melt in if you weren’t so bloody nervous. Your heart skips about five beats.

“That good?” He asks when he pulls away. You just sort of... Nod, yeah, nodding is a good response here. “I’m glad. Oh, right!”

You stand back on your own two feet, brushing down your shirt. It’s a nice shirt. You look nice. Mettaton has lipstick on his face. You reach up and smear it off because hah, your lipstick is on his face, isn’t that hilarious, you gotta fix that.

“I have absolutely no idea what to do now,” you blurt in confession. You see the surprise on his face again, the one that lasted about half a second before. It’s lasting longer than half a second this time. Then he laughs – not a scripted laugh, no _oh-ho-ho-hos_ , he fucking snorts (you WEREN’T imagining things!) and drops his head, shoulders shaking in mirth at you as legit _HA-HA-HA-HAs_ play from his speaker.

This guy is a fucking dork.

“Well, darling,” he says, bringing a hand to his eye to wipe away an imaginary tear. “We can do whatever you want to do.”

“No matter what?”

“I’m giving you free reign over the rest of the evening.”

Such power. Um. Okay. You slide up to him, batting your eyes facetiously. “Shall we get a room?” There’s that fan noise again. Hmm. He’s gone still, too, staring down at you with surprise scrawled all over his face. “I’m kidding.”

“Really now.”

“Mostly.”

He kisses you again, holding your face in one hand. “Can I ride on the remaining sincerity?”

You’re going to die via robot.

“Yes.”

Totally fucking worth it.

\- x -

The hotel Mettaton takes you to is a fancy affair, as expected of him. It also has a statue of Mettaton himself in the lobby, the version of himself that’s more of a box than anything else. A box with arms and a giant pixel screen.

“Yours, I’m assuming?”

“I had a version of this built from the Underground! I’ve had some happy memories here. I needed another. There have been some changes, of course. But it’s still a hotel of mine for me and mine.”

He grabs a set of keys from behind the desk (manned by a monster with five eyes made out of light bulbs) and carts you to a glitzy elevator headed towards the thirty-sixth floor. He dips you in the elevator again, kissing you for the entire thirty-six floor ride (pausing only for the moments when the elevator opens to glare at whoever’s there until the doors shut again, which doesn’t happen often) until he pulls you out into a deserted hallway and down to a door labelled “METTATON.”

You should be surprised, but you aren’t. You’re actually more surprised when it opens up to reveal a large room, a giant TV, a charging station (that’s really just a strip of bedazzled plugs), and a huge ass bed. You didn’t think Mettaton would have a bed. Who knew.

“Welcome to my vacation station, sweetheart.”

“It’s lovely.” It’s a hotel room. “What’s... the plan here, I guess?”

“It’s up to you.” You hate things that are up to you when it comes to plans. You can never think of anything appropriate. But you know where it’s supposed to go, and where (quite honestly) you want to take it. You’d be lying to yourself if you didn’t want to gently push him down on the bed and stick your tongue down his (theoretical) throat with his hands on your ass, then flip over and have him fuck you into the mattress. You’re just not sure it’s your place to suggest that.

Of course, the next words out of your mouth are “We should fuck.” Wow. Tactful. You’re going to invent time travel just so you can slap yourself in the past for that.

Mettaton looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh at you. You appreciate the attempt, if nothing else. “That’s certainly a avenue we can go down, darling.” He caresses your jaw, leaning in. “We can do anything you like. Tonight you’re the star of the show.” The effect is ruined somewhat by his derisive snort. “It’s a rare opportunity, darling, to take away my spotlight. Take full advantage.”

You slide your arms around his neck, shoving your lips against his before you can say something stupid again. He’s still hot, still wet – wetter? Is he getting wetter? Almost grossly so, and perfect for sucking the cock you don’t have. You’ll pretend, though, you’ll pretend and later (if there’s a later) you’ll watch him swallow around your strap on. Yeah, you can get behind that, you’re already starting to soak your underwear a little with those thoughts.

He kneads at your ass and you groan, trying to tiptoe both of you towards the bed. Standing is bad, he’s taller than you and it hurts your poor non robotic neck, on the bed where you can wrap your legs around him is the place to be. Or you know he could pick you up with fucking ease (why does that send a pulse through your crotch) and carry you to the bed with your legs around his hips, which works too.

You hit the bed with a bounce, Mettaton following. He fucking looms and you take full advantage of his size and position to run your hands all over him, from face to chest to waist and ass and back to chest. You don’t look at his face as he lets you, soft faux hair falling into your face.

After a few minutes of this, of just exploring him, he interrupts you with kisses all over your face, a hand sliding up your shirt, and then an odd pause.

“Look, darling,” he says, hovering over you hesitantly. “We, uh, need to, before this goes much farther…”

“Hmm?” you ask wordlessly, distracted by how his voice doesn’t come out of his mouth. His chest vibrates at the speaker. The lip-syncing is truly incredible.

“I’m a robot, darling,” he says. You inform him that you had, in fact, noticed that part. “I’m not wearing any clothes,” he elaborates, “What you see is what you get, and right now...”

“You know, sex doesn’t have to include genitalia. There are options,” you offer. A sparking noise pops out of the speaker. You giggle running hands up and down his sides. The metal is cool to the touch on his extremities, his arms and shoulders are cold. Although his core, where his heart and speaker and dials all are hot, so hot that they’re almost burning. It’s like your laptop, if your laptop had soft thighs you could feel cords through when you grope at them. Rubber? Silicon? You decide to ask later, perhaps, when you don’t want to kiss him so much.

“I- I have genitalia,” he says, actually sounding offended at the insinuation otherwise. “You just have to tell me what sort you’d like.”

“Any of them. Whichever one you feel like. Can you feel it?” You ask, lifting yourself up and kissing the corner of his mouth.

“I can feel everything, darling, I’m made of metal and magic.” He makes a swallowing noise, and then low purring as you suck on his lip. He feeds you his tongue, soft and slick and wetter than you would expect. How a robot has a wet mouth, you’re not entirely certain, but it tastes delicious and you feel a little punch drunk. “But you have to choose,” he says with clarity even as his mouth is occupied. You shudder.

“What are my options?” you ask finally, breathlessly, lifting your neck up and leading him to nibble on your neck.

“Male, female, ah.” A pause as he sucks a bruise into your neck, concentrating on making you whine rather than speaking. “I could have both, or something entirely different.”

“Should I expect a tentacle?”

“If you want it.” Mettaton pulls away, removing a panel near his hip and showing you a dial. Rather than numbers or labels, there are helpful little diagrams of a dick, vulva, both, a tentacle, a… dog?

“Do I want to ask about the dog?”

“Are you into that?”

“I won’t ask about the dog.” You cough. “Do I have to decide now?”

“I can wait, darling.”

“Can I turn you on without them?”

“Oh, yes,” Mettaton purrs. He pulls you up into his arms, an awkward angle to be sure but it lets him show off how unnaturally he’s allowed to bend. He kisses you. “Do you want to make me beg for it first, darling? Cross my wires and find everything that sparks until I plead for you to finish me? Make me wait until you say I can, or until you’re fucking me, see how much control I really have over this fabulous body of mine?”

Your legs are getting increasingly shaky. You’re glad he can hold you upright, though you would much rather be on the bed again, under him, over him, wrecking him.

“Tell me what to do,” you murmur, running your hands through his hair. “And don’t get off without me.”

“Gladly.”

The pair of you fall onto the bed, him under you, your hands splayed over his (warm, hot, whirring) chest. He situates you on his hips, legs spread, straddling him. You’re already so turned on that it aches. All this time he kisses you, strawberries and glitter and pure unadulterated robot sin.

He pulls your hand to his chest and slips your fingers under his “ribcage,” groping around the minute gap between his parts until you find an odd little dial that’s surprisingly well hidden.

“Turn it to the right.” He whispers. You listen to him, cranking it from what you assume is zero to a hundred, watching in awe how he goes from unadulterated purring sex under you to a goddamn hot mess, eyes rolling back into his head and back arching.

“Oh _yessssssss_ ,” He moans, jaw slack. His saliva is pink, his tongue long and coiling. Longer than you thought, actually, twisting in on itself hypnotizing. “Oooooh, gorgeous, now – oh _fuck_ —”

You laugh not unkindly as you render him inarticulate, dragging the pads of your fingers over the box where his pink heart pulsates dramatically inside. With the very little give there is in the cover you press it inwards, just barely brushing against the weapon/soul. “What did it do?”

“Sensitivity dial, you raised it,” he grinds out, practically shaking in anticipation. You’re a little worried that he’s going to overheat. “Oh darling, please, ah, open—” He grabs at the heart box and you sort of get the gist.

“Isn’t that sort of cheating?” You ask as you open him up and fondle the artificial soul, slipping it free from its socket. It’s soft, similar to his tongue, and beating in time to a music you can’t hear.

“I simply cannot wait that long, darling,” he moans pornographically, “so I thought I’d speed things up a little.” His heart oozes on your palm, so you squeeze it. Gently, ever so gently, with him so sensitive. You want to wreck him, not actually break him, and definitely not make him go off in a shower of sparks after so little touching. He seizes up, tongue lolled out of his mouth, and an obscene cry tears out of his speakers. Not a moan, not a purr, no.

You find out that Mettaton’s a fucking screamer when he’s up at a hundred. And you seem to have your hands on his most sensitive part.

“How the fuck do you feel it, it’s not even attached to you.” You don’t expect an answer, considering that it seems like Mettaton is busy remembering how to exist. Metal and magic, you suppose, and have to leave it at that. It’s all metal and magic.

You do wonder what would happen if you put your mouth on it – then you don’t wonder, you just do it, licking a stripe over the broad curve of it. The first lick tastes like nothing, the second tastes like strawberries. Or cherries? Maybe both. Mettaton screams again, jaw slack, shaking under your hips so badly that you wonder for a second if he comes with a vibrate function.

He probably does.

“Fucking fuck, darling, gorgeous, oh please!” He gasps. You barely have to touch him, holy shit. The throb between your legs reminds you that you’re really, really, really horny, and the beautiful robot below you is certainly the problem. It’s too much fun. There’s pink ooze and glitter gushing down your arm, oozing up and out of his socket. You’re almost afraid he’s going to start spitting it up, and you’re not emetophiliac.

Ha, he’s doing the anime porno face. Maybe it would benefit from some pink drool.

“Oh please, what?” You ask, giving his heart a little suck. He wails and vibrates and your thighs shake. He can’t seem to tell you exactly what, but that might be because he’s a little busy writhing and fisting the sheets (probably tearing them, let’s be honest, but it’s not your sheets so not your problem), panting for breaths he obviously doesn’t need, ostensibly to keep himself distracted enough that he doesn’t accidentally hurt you. He could bench press you, or lift your entire weight with one leg, and yet here he is helpless under you while you swallow strawberry glitter goo.

You hope this is actually safe to ingest, because there’s actually a lot of it and it kind of tastes good?

While he’s distracted you take one pink, sticky hand back and go to fuss with the large pseudo-dial. From what you can tell, it actually does absolutely nothing – decoration for his metal body, a prop to look fashionable – but damn it is amusing to watch him whine as you play with useless bits of him. From there you caress the pink plating of his chest (reminds you of your phone case), the silver of his “stomach.” He trembles at your every touch, forcibly keeping himself down. Maybe you’ll restrain him next time? It looks like he’s into that.

“How are you doing?” You ask as you grind your hips into his. He leers up as you set the heart back in its socket for later, stripping off your shirt (quite unnecessary), pants (also quite unnecessary), and underwear (the most unnecessary of them all) while you let him catch his artificial breath.

“Fabulous, sweetheart.” He shudders as you reach back and knead at his thighs, purring as you thumb a particularly good cord inside the insulation. “Wh- why did you stop?”

“Felt like it’s cheating,” you lie. You loom over him, bracing yourself on his shoulders so you can kiss his slack mouth. He returns the kiss eagerly, hmmmmmm-ing at you from his chest. “I wanna work you up to the edge everywhere else.”

The whirring fan, you think, is his blush. You should have expected that. It’s cute.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to get on to the main show?” He asks, wiggling his hips pointedly. He seems to have gotten used to the up in sensitivity, but maybe that’s just because after you fondling his pulsating erogenous zone everything else just seems normal in comparison.

Then again, his artificial breath catches sharply when you wiggle back, so maybe not.

“Any preference yet?”

Mettaton huffs a sigh. “They’re all the same t- to me, really, all f-feel just as go- _will you stop doing that while I’m trying to talk?!_ ”

“Nah,” you snark as you dig back at the cords in his thighs. “Please, continue.”

“Oh darling, I knew th- there’s a reason I lik-k-ke you,” He stutters, not even trying to sync his mouth with his voice at this point. “They all f-f-feel just as g-g-g-g-g-g-” he glares as you continue to thumb one cable in particular that seems to be messing with his voice. The fan’s going quite loudly now. You’ll have to tease him later about his voice chip being located, apparently, in his right boot.

You relent after a minute of him just glaring at you, grinning like mad. “They all feel just as good, sweetheart, it’s all custom to what you want to experience. _I_ don’t have much of a preference.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes and instead lean back downwards to inspect his “genital selection box.” You almost go for the tentacle – almost, it’s exotic and strange and you kind of want to take it for a spin – but you decide on his cock instead. You’ll have the strange exotic tentacle later and you kind of want to get seriously fucked, not gonna lie, so no pussies tonight. And you really don’t want to know what the dog is.

It’s really a marvel of machinery that whirrs under you. Mettaton sits up as you scoot back to watch, sullenly looking away as you blatantly stare at his currently-under-renovations crotch. You don’t even know how to describe how the - metal? plastic? latex? you have no idea – parts and a bright fucking pink metal dick slides out of what you guess you’re calling a sheath now. Almost surreal.

“Is it glowing,” you deadpan.

“Probably, but that’s because I’m so fabulous that most of me does,” Mettaton offers helpfully. May the lord grant patience, but probably not, because you’re sinning hardcore with a pink robot star from the Underground.

He yelps like a wounded dog (ha) when you take his cock in hand, marveling at the size and texture. This is all for science, of course. It wasn’t a particularly huge dick, thank god, nor was it undersized. Surprisingly average – call the presses, something involving Mettaton was “average” – but heavy in your hand. Feels like one of your dildos, the expensive silicone you rarely use. Except the one attached to the robot on your bed looks almost like jelly, vaguely see-though, and yes, it’s glowing. You can see the light against your palm.

You give him a few experimental pumps, watching in fascination as he hunches over, groaning. What you assume is lube leaks from the tip of his dick, looking suspiciously like what his heart was pumping out maybe five minutes ago. The sheets are certainly torn. He looks destroyed from you barely doing _anything,_ probably trying to cling to those last shreds of dignity.

Oh yeah and you told him not to get off. That’s still a thing.

“How are you doing,” You ask again, softly. He whimpers. You kiss the side of his mouth, feeling how even the metal of his arms has heated up at this point as you press your chest into him. “You going to cum?”

“Darling, I was much closer when you had my heart in your hands,” Mettaton says with a roll of his eyes. “This is deliciously pl-l-l-l— _stop it!_ ”

You take your hand back from his leg and give him your best shit eating grin. He looks less than amused until you throw your leg over his hips and rub the head of his dick by your clit. Not in you, not yet, just a slight (not very long) tease before the finale to this grand show. The room is silent save for his fan working double time, whirring so loudly that it almost overtakes any of your own thoughts.

The silence is ruined by your long, drawn-out sigh when you sink down on him, feeling the size and weight of his cock inside you. Somehow, during this time, you closed your eyes. What a shame. You open them.

Mettaton looks like he’s going to die. You almost start laughing, almost, except that it’s also really fucking hot to see him biting his lower lip and pointedly looking everywhere that you’re not. His heart’s beating erratically right in front of you, thudding away and dripping glitter.

“Hey.”

He hums at you, still staring somewhere pointedly to your right.

“Look at me, darling.”

He slowly drags his face back and looks you in the eye. “That’s my line, gorgeous.”

“Not when I’m on top.” You reposition your legs – riding’s always been uncomfortable for you, the easiest positions to fuck are always so awkward and undignified – and brace yourself on his chest, lifting your hips back up. You’re determined to do this watching him, and him you, so you can see how badly you’re pushing the limits of his programming.

Once you start riding him – and you do, hands on his chest, watching him watch you – things don’t last too long. He moans and whines and cries at every drop of your hips, even as he leans up to kiss you as though his circuits depended on it. You can feel his cock jerking in you when you pause to catch your breath and Mettaton, this gorgeous fucking robot, just sits there and concentrates very, very hard on not cumming. He’s so involved in it, kissing you, hands resting gently at your hips, that you feel for a minute extremely adored.

Too bad you ruin it by reaching down and giving his pulsating pink heart a firm squeeze. He freezes, completely locks up for a second, then throws his head back (head, shoulders, chest, they all slam into the headboard and you’d be concerned if he wasn’t made of metal) and screams. His fingers dig into your hips as you feel his heart beat in time to the waves that pulsate in you. You should have been prepared for robot jizz. You were not prepared for robot jizz.

It’s not some normal amount that you’re used to, either. You should have expected it, considering his maker’s anime trash, but you weren’t, and it’s unsettlingly fulfilling to watch Mettaton’s pink glitter gush out of you when you slid off his glittery pink dildo cock again. Unsettlingly fulfilling and fucking hot and shit, you only have to work your clit over for only half a minute before you’re hitting your climax like a goddamn brick wall.

Your legs shiver and slowly slump you back on the robot, dripping wet crotch to intensely warm metal. Ouch ouch, no, rolling over time is now thanks.

You hit the hot sheets and scoot over to the cooler ones, twisting to look back at the literal hot mess you just fell off of. Is he smoking? No, he’s not smoking. Is he?

You force yourself out of post-orgasmic haze to make sure you didn’t actually break the living, sentient, probably possessed robot your boss made. You would really hate to have to call Alphys up at whatever o’clock it was and tell her you crashed her friend through post-sudden-date-sex. He isn’t smoking, thank god, though he’s not really moving. You lean over him, inspecting things. He’s still whirring, at least. His pupil seems to have departed in favor of a circle – loading, loading, loading.

Ah. Reboot.

It’s five minutes before it’s done and he sits up like a lick, lazy and curved and voice cutting back into a jittery and too low “ohhhhh _yes!_ ” He freezes when he gets all the way up, looking around frantically.

“I’m over here,” you say from the bathroom from where you were washing the pink out of your system. So much pink. He sighs in relief, standing up. You also spent the five minutes he was out to wipe the glitter off of his hips, set his genital status back to the normal dickless model, and turn his sensitivity down to normal levels. “How are you doing?”

“Wonderfully.” He leans down on you, arms around your waist and chin on your head. The extremities are back to being _fucking cold_ but his body is warm and it’s cute, to be doted on. If not cold. “I need to recharge sometime in the next few hours, but I’m doing just perfectly. How are you?”

“I need to recharge sometime in the next few hours myself, and the bed’s in shambles. Will you take me home, or do I rest in rags tonight?”

“They are not rags.”

“Will you take me home or do I rest in the sheet towels of robot jizz tonight?”

A pause. “Okay, they might be that.” A kiss at the top of your head. “I’ll take you home, darling.”

\- x -

Mettaton walks you to the door of your little apartment, all the way to the placemat. You’re thankful it’s roughly 11PM and nobody’s out and about at this time to see him bow at your door, ushering you inside. You expect him to kiss you on the doorstep, leaving into the night.

He does not.

Mettaton comes in after you, looking around your apartment interestedly. You’re glad your roommates aren’t home, suddenly, and that you’d managed to do the dishes. “Nice place,” he lies. You can tell he’s lying because his lips purse as though he’s trying not to shit all over it.

“I like it,” you defend. “Are you, uh, staying the night?”

“Would you rather I left?” Mettaton huffs, arms crossed, nose in the air. “I thought you would adore my presence in your life so much.”

“It’s not really protocol for a one-night stand” seems to be the wrong thing to say. So you don’t say that, resigning yourself just shrugging instead. You don’t mind having him here, even if he seems too interested in watching how you brush your teeth and what you change into. (He chooses your sleepwear for the night, the fucking nerd.) You just wonder why he’s there, really.

His charge port, you’re amused to discover as you crash into the bed and crawl under the blanket, is not in his ass. Fan theory busted, ha. It’s in his heel. He plugs himself into the nearest outlet to your bed (where your phone usually goes) and hovers by your side, since it’s not a long enough cord to let him crawl in the bed with you.

Okay, this is weird.

“Are you going to stare at me all night or...?”

 _Heh._ He leans over you and presses a kiss to your forehead. “No, love.”

“Okay.” Good. “Good night, Mettaton.”

“Good night, darling.”

\- x -

He’s there when you wake up, though he’s still powered down. It’s interesting to see him so... vulnerable, you guess, considering right now he’s almost defenseless. You could take him apart if you wanted to and he wouldn’t realize until his power came back on (which you assume is on a timer).

You don’t do that, because that’s creepy. Those thoughts are creepy. You’re kind of creepy, you realize, but then again, you just had fantastic glitter sex with a robot so you suppose creepy is just the new thing for you.

Mettaton powers back on while you’re in the shower, getting ready for work. You hear his “oh yes” over the water and wonder if he really has to do that every single time he comes online or if he just likes to. Maybe six of one, half dozen the other.

He walks you to Alphys’s lab, holding doors open for you. More often than not you get there before Alphys and today is no exception. Still, clock in, turn on computer, look through your list of work (Mew Mew Kissy Cutie fanart, Undyne as a warrior princess, checking the programming of her pet robot project, a digital painting of a group of friends from the undergound and one human, water the golden flowers), turn on all the lights and just go through your routine.

Except there’s a robot sitting in your chair. He pats his lap expectantly, as though you’re supposed to just plop down on his synthetic material legs.

“You know, I’d expect this from Papyrus. You, not so much.”

“Gasp!” The word, not the sound. He’s a fucking dork. “Are you suggesting that this isn’t a splendid gesture as thought up by me? Darling, I’m affronted. Sit.”

... “Yeah. Sure. That sounds fun.” You sit your ass right down in his lap, forcing him to scoot closer to the table so you can reach the computer easier. His cold arms slide around your waist; his head settles on your shoulder. You barely feel the weight of it for almost an hour as you sketch, until he tilts a little and starts kissing your neck.

“I’m supposed to be working, Mettaton.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“I can’t help if I’m fabulous, darling.”

You kind of want to whack him in the face for that, so you do. Gently. On the lips. With your lips. You kiss him. You’re a fucking enabler.

There’s a peculiar sound like books dropping. “Oh my god,” goes a voice that sounds a lot like your boss. “OH MY GOD,” goes a voice that sounds suspiciously like your boss’s girlfriend.

“Oh my god, indeed,” Says Mettaton as you turn your head slightly to the right and see Alphys and Undyne there, staring at the both of you. What is this feeling descending upon you? Ah yes. Mortification. You stand up in a rush, forcing Mettaton out of your chair. You’re working, _working_ , god damn it, you don’t need a robot distracting you and making your boss’s girlfriend fall over cackling because they managed to catch you being.

Um.

Cute?? Apparently?? Undyne’s calling you “fucking adorable holy shit??” (And then going “Uh. I mean. Swords are cool!!”) You just want to sink in your chair and pretend you don’t exist. You do your best impression of a chair and draw, ignoring the commotion, ignoring Mettaton kissing the side of your head (please no they’re looking you’re supposed to be arting), and especially ignoring how he flounces off to talk with Alphys as they usually do. Except, you know, this time Undyne’s here for some reason.

You try not to listen to their conversation.

You hear it anyway.

“I took them out, we had fantastic sex – thank you for the dick, Alphys – and now we’re dating.”

You choke on your own spit and somehow find your forehead slamming into the desk. That hurt. Your face feels like it’s a million degrees and you start coughing, thumping your own chest in this slouch. You’re dating? You thought you were a one night stand. He values enough to tell your boss that you’re dating? You mean, you’re gonna have to have a talk about boundaries and not assuming your situation with somebody, but you’re apparently dating Mettaton and oh god he told your boss that you fucked and oh god he thanked her for the fucking pink cock you rode—

You’re going to die via robot.

“Well, I certainly hope we are! I adore them very much.”

Fucking worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> (if u want give me suggestions to continue this lil story and i might be able to keep writing Mettaton x Reader in my spare time)


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